


everything

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Dom Stiles, Established Relationship, Hot Chocolate, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Service Top, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want you to tie me up," Stiles says.</p><p>Derek frowns at him, probably because he asked Stiles whether or not Scott and Allison are coming to dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ashe, Clio, Scout, for tireless cheerleading, and Radish for the heroic last-minute beta! Much love always to disney princess for the rope consult.
> 
> notes: [JT's Stockroom [NSFW]](http://www.stockroom.com/) is an upmarket kink gear vendor. All the rope stuff in here has been tried & tested at home, and is described accurately to the best of my ability.

There are some things Stiles can't do on his own.

A short list:  
\- making saltwater taffy  
\- that mountain ash pouf-y ring thing  
\- assembling a queen-size bedframe from IKEA  
\- tying himself up

—

Stiles takes a while to work up to asking Derek, because Derek is the one in their relationship who likes to be whipped and spanked and have Stiles come all over his face, and also because most of the tutorials are on YouTube and Derek has some kind of moral objection to streaming video.

"You're so good, Derek," Stiles says as he wipes down Derek's face with a warm, damp wash cloth, carefully to get his eyelashes clean, the creases around his eyes. He cleans up Derek's thighs next, pulls the bullet vibe out of Derek's ass. "So good for me, you know that?"

Derek does something like purring when he's happy, a growl that's just a soft rumble in his chest; he doesn't like to talk when they do this. Instead, he leans into Stiles's touch, follows Stiles's movements with his body, presses his head against Stiles's chest when Stiles steps close. Derek's still on his knees, but he comes along easily enough when Stiles takes Derek's hand in his and tugs him up onto the bed.

Before they started, Stiles piled a bunch of pillows on top—Derek always complains about his thing for throw pillows, how they don't match and the chenille on some of the old ones is getting ratty—so they can curl up in a big squishy nest. Derek's naked, but Stiles is still wearing boxers, which he yanked back up for cleanup time. He kicks them off before he climbs onto the bed after Derek. Stiles wants them skin-to-skin: he wants to touch Derek everywhere, soothe him, even though the marks from the paddle Stiles used are already fading.

"Mmm," Derek says while Stiles manhandles him into position. He likes being the little spoon after they play like this, although they normally sleep the other way around.

Stiles presses a kiss to the back of Derek's neck. "Sssh," he says.

They fall asleep like that under the big, fluffy duvet, warm and sated and cozy.

—

"I want you to tie me up," Stiles says when he wakes up.

Derek frowns at him, probably because he just asked Stiles whether or not Scott and Allison are coming to dinner and if Scott is bringing anything. Neither Derek or Stiles is good in the kitchen. They eat a lot of frozen food. The last time Stiles baked chocolate chip cookies, he only burned the second batch, which was progress. "Now?"

Stiles sighs. "Scott said he'd make meatloaf."

"Okay," Derek says, rolling off the bed. "I'm going to make potatoes."

"Do we have potatoes?" Stiles asks. He saw some in the pantry the other day, but they looked like they were getting ready to sprout and claim the pantry as their dominion, so Stiles just grabbed the Oreos off the top shelf and shut the door.

"Maybe," Derek says.

Fifteen minutes later, he sticks his head back into the bedroom, where Stiles is now playing Fruit Ninja on his phone. Derek's holding a fresh trash bag in his hand, still flattened and folded. "Tie _you_ up," Derek says, raising an eyebrow.

"So, you found the potatoes," Stiles says.

—

Scott comes over with a couple bottles of werewolf beer (Isaac has gotten really into homebrewing) and Stiles has some Fat Tire in the back of the fridge, so they're all pleasantly drunk by the end of the evening, though Scott'll sober up soon enough that he can drive home.

"Drink water," Scott says to Stiles and Allison, pushing glasses of water with bendy straws toward them across the kitchen table. They're real glasses, too, more's the pity—Derek and Stiles don't have a dishwasher. "I'll wash our dishes before we go, Stiles."

"A True Alpha," Stiles says, fluttering his eyelashes.

Allison snorts. "He never does that at home."

"We have a dishwasher," Scott says.

"I'm not a dishwasher," Derek says pointedly, shimmying in his chair to look at Stiles. "I don't want you to get any ideas."

(Sometimes Derek is a dishwasher, in a safe/sane/consensual/previously negotiated way, but they don't talk about that in front of Scott and Allison. Scott makes faces; Allison wants details.)

"Ew," Scott says. "Take your idea face off."

Stiles runs his hand over his face. He wonders what his idea face looks like; it's not like he's ever looking into a mirror when he has these insights. Or the camera on the front of his phone. "I'm really drunk, wow."

"Drink your water," Derek says gently. He takes the cup and holds it up so Stiles can drink from the straw. "You're going to be sad in the morning."

Obediently, Stiles drinks. He's not sober enough for sassing. "You take good care of me, baby," he says when he's finished half the cup, letting the straw fall from his mouth.

"Ew," Scott says from the other side of the table, then, "Ow," when Allison kicks him.

—

Scott and Allison (and sometimes Isaac) have been together again since they shut down the nemeton senior year of high school, but Stiles and Derek didn't get together until Stiles was out of college. Stiles didn't even think about it. Sure, Derek was hot, and he had a lot of muscles, and he was Scott's beta, so when he trailed them around all the time it wasn't technically stalking anymore, but Derek was—Derek. Stiles dated normal people. He dated Lydia for a while, then an incubus who liked to jerk off on his own after Stiles whipped the shit out of him, then a string of other supernatural types with whom Stiles is still friends on Facebook. He never got into anybody like he had Lydia or Ferris the incubus.

Maybe Stiles never would have, except that one day he came home from an exorcism to his bedroom at Dad's—he was going to move out any day, really, like, yesterday—and Derek was paging through the catalogue Stiles had gotten in the mail from JT's Stockroom with obvious interest.

"That's kind of an aspirational catalogue," Stiles said, trying to keep cool as he dumped his backpack next to the bed. "You know, like how Allison always has one from Crate & Barrel on the coffee table Scott got off Freecycle."

Derek flipped another page. "I see."

Stiles stared.

"What?" Derek said a few minutes later, setting the catalogue facedown on his lap, pages open so he didn't lose his place. He wasn't even _done_ with the catalogue. This was like watching Lydia reading a physics journal cover to cover at the beach.

"Um," Stiles said. "They do have a website. If you're interested."

"Yeah, I know," Derek said.

They both stared at each other this time, which didn't help Stiles at all. They'd known each other for seven years, and already shared plenty of incredulous, irate, indignant stares. Derek had a wide range of stares—this one was on the serious side—but they were used interchangeably for situations as varied as _someone took the last Pop Tart in my apartment and I strongly suspect it was you_ (true) and _I definitely do not have another murderous girlfriend, what the fuck are you talking about_ (ha, ha).

"I wasn't aware that you had such a broad array of recreational pursuits," Stiles said finally.

Derek raised his eyebrows. "'Recreational pursuits'?"

Stiles held up his hands, but like he did when cornered by Dad, not when someone actually pulled a gun on him. "Look, I'm just trying to—"

"Does your dad check the mail?" Derek said.

"Why are you in my room window-shopping for bondage gear?" Stiles said.

"Well," Derek said.

"You can't borrow mine," Stiles said, because he was going to head that one off at the pass. "You can afford nicer stuff, anyway."

Derek crossed his arms. "I don't like buying things off the internet."

They stared at each other again. It was just as confusing.

"I'm very confused." Stiles gestured to the two yards of space between them. "Are you propositioning me?"

" _No_ ," Derek said. The catalogue started to slide off his lap, and he made an ungraceful dive for it.

"Can I proposition you?" Stiles said.

Derek frowned.

"I prefer to start the healthy dialogue part of the relationship early on," Stiles clarified.

"We're not dating," Derek said darkly, but he dog-eared his page and set the catalogue on the floor.

("We're dating," Derek said later. He was cuffed to Stiles's bed at the wrists and ankles, which had required some creative use of chain given the standard metal frame under the box spring.

"Ask nicely," Stiles said.)

—

Now they're boring married people with a fixer-upper bungalow on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. Neither of them are really the fixing-up type, so the front steps squeak and there's no dishwasher and the tile behind the toilet in the downstairs bathroom is loose. However, the house faces south, so there's good light for the lemon balm and patchouli Stiles has not yet managed to kill, and the transoms on top of all the doors let through a pleasant cross-breeze in the summer.

("It's a drafty house," Derek says every winter. "We bought a _drafty house_."

"Whatever," Stiles says from beneath the duvet.)

Allison helped modify the IKEA bedframe so Stiles didn't kill himself with power tools in an attempt to add more attachment points. "So, tell me what you're planning on using these for," Allison said.

Stiles's eyes glazed over a bit. "Everything," he said.

—

"So, you want me to tie you to the bed, and—" Derek says, looking supremely uncomfortable.

They're eating bagels in the kitchen, the good ones they have to go a town over to get early on Saturday mornings. Derek likes his bagels plain with butter, the weirdo, but Stiles has smeared a thick layer of lox spread over his poppyseed one. "Not the bed," Stiles says. " And I don't want to have sex? I just want to be, you know, constrained. You don't have to—I'll tell you what to do."

Derek chews a bite of bagel thoughtfully. "You like small spaces."

Stiles likes nesting in their bed. He likes curling up under their big duvet and pulling it over his head until Derek shoves it down and claims it's cutting off their oxygen supply; he even turned the coat closet under the stairs into his emissary office and hung a sign that says _Harry Potter_ on the door. Stiles wants to be tied up, to go to that small, safe place in his head, and he wants Derek to do it. "I do," he says. "And I trust you."

Beneath the table, Derek rubs his ankle against Stiles's. They've always trusted each other with big things, their lives, their safety, and others', but there are different kinds of trust. It means something else to know that Stiles will pay the bills on time and Derek won't ever invite Peter into their home, that Derek will tell Stiles when he's uncomfortable and Stiles will always take him from harsh discipline to that quiet place afterward with gentle words and soft touches.

"What do I—where do I start?" Derek says.

Stiles grins. "YouTube."

"Of course," Derek grumbles into his coffee.

—

Stiles is a supernatural consultant and Derek pays the bills with ghostwriting middle-reader horror serials, so they keep odd hours. Today, it's 4AM and they're just getting to bed, blackout shades drawn, Derek reading a biography of Teddy Roosevelt that smells like library, Stiles watching videos on his phone.

"You're going to drop that on your face." Derek placidly turns a page.

Stiles shrugs into his pillow. "Yeah, sure." He likes watching this one video of someone crinkling a ramen packet before bed after a long day. It's really soothing.

After a few minutes, Derek puts his book down on his bedside table and turns off the clamp light; the backlight on Stiles's phone flares up, and Stiles blinks. "Sorry," Derek says. He rolls over and puts his face on Stiles's shoulder, and watches the ramen plastic crinkle for a few seconds. "Do you have the rope ones on there?"

Stiles loses his grip on the phone a few minutes into the first video that he's bookmarked, but Derek catches the phone and holds it up until they've made it all the way through a basic harness.

—

"We own a lot of rope," Stiles mutters to himself on Monday afternoon. There's nothing special about this Monday afternoon; he's just cleaning up the mess under their bed because if he lets things go too far, Derek will clean and then Stiles will never find anything ever again. "Why do we own so much rope?"

They have one box of toys under the bed and a beat-up suitcase full of stuff that doesn't come out as often. The rope is all stacked in neat coils inside: nylon and jute and soft, magicked cotton that'll only let Derek free when one of them says the word. "Show me," Derek says, coming in from the living room. "I want to—"

Stiles looks up at Derek and his heart feels warm and full. "I know you do."

—

Derek uses the jute, oiled and soft in ten yard lengths. He starts with the chest harness that'll serve as an anchor, keeping the tension off Stiles's shoulders. "Like that," Stiles says, watching their reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. They're both mostly clothed, in t-shirts and boxers."Around my chest, and over the shoulder—"

Behind Stiles, Derek clears his throat. "I know what I'm doing now."

"Not so scary, huh?" Stiles says.

Derek doesn't say anything, just pulls the rope through the bottom wrap of the harness over Stiles's back and up over his shoulder to pass over the top wrap of in front, then beneath the bottom wrap there. As he pulls the running rope back up, he twists it with the rope coming down, then passes it under the top wrap of the harness and pulls it over Stiles's other shoulder. Stiles can already feel the constriction around his ribs—there's slack there, but not too much. The set of ties they decided on isn't one Stiles has ever used on Derek before: those are always to hold him open, while these will close Stiles in.

"You're doing so great." Stiles reaches up to touch Derek, stroking down the soft inside of his arm until he catches Derek's palm with the rope between them. "This is—this is exactly what I wanted."

Derek hides his face against Stiles's neck, presses a kiss to the nape. He loves praise, he loves it when Stiles tells him how precious and wonderful and _good_ he is, but he's always shy about it, like it's some kind of guilty pleasure. "Thanks," he says.

"Keep going," Stiles says, squeezing Derek's hand before he lets go.

After Derek ties off the harness, Stiles gets down onto his stomach so Derek can start wrapping the next length of rope around his legs, binding them together. Stiles can't watch their progress in the mirror anymore: that's fine. Derek can do this, they both know he can. Stiles is half-hard, dick pressed against the mattress, but there's nothing urgent about it. What he needs is Derek's fingers brushing against him, the smooth slide of the rope over his skin, while Stiles goes deeper into that soft, quiet place inside.

Derek ties Stiles's ankles to the harness after that, drawing them up so they're bent at the knee. He secures Stiles's wrists between his ankles and the harness last. Stiles could wiggle a little if he wanted, and Derek has scissors if he wants out, but he's content just like this, constricted, tied, safe, with Derek curled up beside him on the bed, stroking his hair. "Thanks, baby," Stiles says, and then he doesn't talk at all for a while.

—

They set a timer at the beginning, one that would light up Derek's phone without vibrating or making a sound, because there's only so long Stiles can stay bound like this safely. Stiles whimpers in protest when Derek stirs next to him and says, "I have to untie you now." Derek's whispering, but he's so _loud_

"Shhh," Stiles says, but he nods in agreement. Derek is slow, gentle as he reverses his steps, and he lets Stiles stay on his stomach while he undoes the harness, reaching beneath Stiles when he needs to untwist something. He chafes Stiles's ankles and wrists for a few moments, after, pressing kisses to the reddened skin, and then he starts pulling pillows onto the bed to make a nest.

"You okay?" Derek asks as he's tugging Stiles toward him, dragging them into the pillow cocoon. "You're—"

Stiles reaches up and touches his face; his cheeks are wet. "Oh," he says. "No, I'm—it was, it was just a lot."

Derek kisses the top of his head. "Just checking."

They snuggle for a few minutes before Stiles gets the rest of his words together. "That was perfect," he says, turning to kiss Derek's arm, the easiest part of him to reach. "You were perfect. Everything was perfect."

—

Later, Derek makes hot chocolate the way Stiles's mom always used to—it's one of the few things both of them can reliably not fuck up, even though it involves using a grater on a chocolate bar and heating milk on the stove without burning the crap out of it. Stiles moves the empty box from Amazon off the step stool and sits down to watch Derek whisk with his sexy werewolf muscles. He feels wrung out, empty, maybe a little jealous of how Derek gets to feel this way _all_ the time.

"Here," Derek says, handing him a mug. "I'll wash the grater later. I know you hate that."

"Ahh," Stiles says. "That's love."

**Author's Note:**

> Here is [a NSFW tutorial](http://www.monkeyfetish.com/content/rope-tutorials/64-basic-chest-harness.html) for the chest harness Derek uses on Stiles.
> 
> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
